


Clinical Correlation Recommended

by twicky



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Elementary (TV)
Genre: Doctor Who/Elementary crossover, Gen, bad undercover skills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-10
Packaged: 2018-09-23 10:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9651227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twicky/pseuds/twicky
Summary: What better way to catch an alien shapeshifter targeting small, innocent children than to masquerade as one of its potential victims? It all sounded very good on paper, but as Clara should have learnt by now Murphy’s law usually applies where the Doctor’s plans are concerned.





	

“Was this really the best plan you could come up with?” Clara shifted the nappy bag so that the strap sat more comfortably against her shoulder. “It seems slightly convoluted, even by your standards.”

The Doctor pulled the dummy out of his mouth so he could answer her. “Criminal alien shapeshifter hiding out in a facility with literally a cast of  _thousands_ , preying on the life force of the most vulnerable of its inmates? The lives of innocent babes and the hearts of their parents at stake? What would you have me do, Clara? I’m open to suggestions by the way, so feel free to chime in.”

Clara batted irritably at the strands of hair sticking to her sweating face, in the process accidentally elbowing the toddler she had strapped in an infant carrier across her front in the face.

“Oomph!” went the Doctor, and started to wail. Loudly.

“Sorry, sorry!” said Clara, more for the benefit of the people starting to stare at them in the atrium of the hospital than out of any real sense of contriteness. Adjusting the nappy bag which had managed to slip off her should for the  _zillionth_  time, she walked herself and the Doctor to a more private part along the hallway, away from the curious glances of the others.

“ _What are you doing_?” hissed Clara. The Doctor, still producing the occasional wet hiccup, wriggled deeper into the baby carrier and pressed his tear-soaked face against her chest, eliciting a grimace out of Clara. “Doctor!” she prompted again.

The Doctor straightened, and Clara found herself being stared up at by a pair of large watery eyes, set above ridiculously cherubic cheeks, and she smiled despite herself.

“Clara, it’s this body.” The diminutive Doctor spoke with a slight lisp, which made Clara grin even more, and she made no attempt to hide it because she could see how much it was annoying him. “Stop smiling, Clara. This is serious. Everything feels so much more disinhibited in this body. There’s the  _me_ -me, and then there’s the  _me_  who wants to poop every fifteen minutes, and eat right after, and feel the urge to poop again while I’m still eating. And for some reasons human mammary glands keep popping up in my consciousness.”

“Doctor you sound like that creepy baby with the deep voice, from that American cartoon.”

“Stewie.”

“What?”

“The creepy cartoon baby is called ‘Stewie’. Funny you should mention him; I do believe the Master in one of his more… _juvenile_  disguises may have inspired his creation…”

“Whatever. Just…go easy on the ‘human mammary gland’ references.”

“Don’t be prudish Clara, your society as a whole is making such good progress on de-stigmatising breastfeeding.”

“ _I am not a prude_.”

“Anyway, I’m merely saying that the longer I stay in this form the less control I have over it. We need to accomplish this mission  _fast_ , otherwise I’ll be no use to either one of us.”

Before Clara could argue back that, speaking of the mission, she would very much appreciate it if the Doctor could clarify  _where_  exactly they were going, or should be going towards, an almighty  _BANG_  resounded at the end of the corridor, followed by a growing commotion of voices. Clara had to jump out of the way to allow the throng of frantic-looking people past. In the midst of the group Clara could see a teary, red-faced young man sitting on the gurney being wheeled by three very determined-looking people in uniforms, and in his arm was a screaming baby, barely a few weeks old by Clara’s professionally nanny-trained eyes. She tried catching the arm of one of the people in the group to ask what was going on, but of course she was brushed off and asked to ‘stand aside please, Ma’am’. Watching their rapidly retreating backs, Clara thought she could make out “Exactly like the other ones…was fine, stable obs…got worse  _like that”_ and “has the typical rash too.”

Suddenly Clara became aware of the Doctor trembling against her, his whole form now buried so deeply in the carrier that only a tuft of curly sand-brown hair could be seen emerging from the top. And despite her coaxing he could not be convinced to re-surface, except to briefly poke out his head to say, “A&E, just past those doors - we should go there next and try to get admitted onto the paediatrics ward. And I’ll be needing some, uh, firm external reinforcement to dampen my sympathetic overdrive.”

Feeling (not for the first time today) slightly out of her depths, Clara acquiesced to the Doctor’s request and gave him a good cuddle, before walking determinedly to the closed set of double-doors leading to the emergency department.

~~~

Once she was in there Clara felt overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and  _smells_  of the place. Again she tried to catch the attention of any of the uniformed staff members milling about, but everyone seemed to be  _so busy_  with something, and either deliberately or unintentionally their gazes bounced off her. She spotted a man in scrubs walking stiffly in front of her, shoulders hunched and mumbling under his breath. Quickly trotting to catch up, Clara stepped in front of the man (one Nurse Don, as his name tag stated), startling him out of his reverie.

Nurse Don looked up from the stack of papers he was carrying, one eyebrow raised, and Clara suddenly felt self-conscious as the nurse’s eyes scanned over her and the Doctor’s sleeping form.

“How may I help you?” enquired Don, his pronunciation clipped and precise.

The Doctor chose this moment to give a series of wet, hacking coughs, opening his eyes to stare blearily and accusingly at the nurse.

“I’ve got a sick child and I have no idea where anything is…or who can help me?” said Clara, her statement inadvertently trailing into a question as the man continued to look at her, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Nurse Don turned his gaze to the Doctor, who instinctively quailed under the man’s penetrating stare.

Clara was on the verge of backing away slowly, so as to enlist the help of another (and hopefully less intense) staff member, when Don’s expression suddenly cleared and he placed a hand on his arm, guiding her gently towards an area where Clara could see ten or so other people with young children sat. “Don’t you worry, my dear,” he said, his tone light and reassuring. “We’ll get you and your baby sorted soon. Just take a seat, and one of the clerks will grab your details and add you to the waiting list.” He started to turn away even before he finished speaking, his attention once again on the stack of papers in his hands, but something about this man’s demeanour set all sorts of alarm bells ringing in Clara’s head, and she decided to push her luck a bit further.

“What do you know about the disease going around this hospital recently, the one that only affects very young children? Something about a rash? I’m only asking because I’m worried about my child, he’s in the right age group you see.”

The man froze, his back still turned from them. Clara tightened her hold on the Doctor, ready to make for the nearest exit should Nurse Don suddenly transform into a ten-foot, six-legged being with fangs or - worse - pull a weapon on them. But when he turned around he wore the same inscrutable expression as when Clara first placed herself in his path. He bounced on his heels a few times on the spot, opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again after seeming to come to a snap decision and stalking away without another word.

Clara could sense the frustration radiating from the Doctor, or maybe it was just her projecting. There was definitely something off about that nurse, but ‘off’ didn’t necessarily equate with ‘being complicit in the morbidity and demise of small, innocent children.’ Either way, they weren’t any closer to catching the shapeshifter than when they first stepped foot in this place.

“Clara, this isn’t working.” The Doctor was reaching for the fastenings of the baby-carrier with one short, chubby arm and Clara, understanding his intent, went to undo the buckles so he could slide out from the carrier and onto the pale-green plastic seat next to hers.

“The problem, you see,” he continued, once he was settled comfortably in the chair, “Is that there is no urgency. Whether or not pudding-brain Don is involved in whatever’s been going on around here,  _he’_ s obviously decided that  _we_  are of no consequence. We need to get into the paediatrics ward. Time to escalate things.”

Then, without missing a beat, the Doctor projectile-vomited all over Clara’s lap.

~~~

“ _Doctor, what the heck_.” yelled Clara, and was met with a dozen or so judgemental looks from the other adults in the waiting room. Clara whipped the vomit-covered Doctor off the seat and, determinedly ignoring that sick that was now soaking through her baggy cotton ‘mom-pants’ (or so Clara had told the Doctor, not that she necessarily cared about what he thought of her outfits, but she was  _totally_  method-acting and not at all utilising the opportunity to not have to think about what to wear for the day…), marched up to the heavy doors leading to where she presumed the patient assessment were being done, and started giving it her all. 

“Doctor. I want a doctor!” said Clara, backtracking on her earlier, accidental slip of the Doctor’s name. She decided to really get into the role. “My baby’s just vomited  _again_ , we’ve been waiting for hours and he’s only getting worse. Is anyone going to do anything about it?” From the corner of her eye Clara saw one of the reception clerks slip away (hopefully to grab a doctor and not a security guard), and so she redoubled her efforts in her tirade. “If anything happens to my baby it’ll be all on  _your heads_. I swear, I’ll make sure that anyone with even a remote interest hears about this and - ”

The heavy doors suddenly opened, causing Clara to jump backwards. Out came Nurse Don, followed by a petite woman in a white coat. She looked to be in her late thirties, with long, dark hair pulled back into a severe pony-tail. Brown eyes sharply appraised Clara and the Doctor from behind a pair of thick-rimmed glasses. Then she smiled, and extended a hand to grasp Clara’s in a firm shake.

“Hi!” greeted the woman, American accent thick. “My name is Bridget, I’m the paediatrics doctor covering A&E. Apologies for the wait. Don here has been telling me about your case. Why don’t you come on through so we can take a look at…?” Bridget looked at the Doctor enquiringly, and Clara caught on that she was waiting for a name.

“John…ny. Johnny Oswald.”

“Okay then, bring Johnny in and we’ll figure out what’s ailing him, the poor tyke.”

“ _Clara, there is definitely something suspect about those two._ ” the Doctor whispered sotto voce, once Bridget and Don had walked a few steps ahead of them.

“How do you even manage to vomit on demand like that?”

“I’m a Time Lord, but back to the issue at hand.”

“If I had to pick one for the shapeshifter I’d definitely go for Don. I mean look at the way he walks, it’s like he’s got built-in stilts or something.”

“I’ve come across a shapeshifter before that could adopt the forms of multiple beings, all at the same time. Funnily enough it was in a hospital too. But  _shhh_ , I think they’re stopping.”

And sure enough, Bridget was pulling from a large roll of paper towel to drape over an examination table, while Don was rummaging around for medical odds and ends. With a sigh of relief Clara dropped the nappy bag that was starting to cut off the circulation to her arm to the floor, where the diagnostic equipment stowed inside made a dull  _thunk_  against the floor. Clara thought she saw Bridget eyeing them from the corner of her vision, but when she turned to look at her she was back to smoothing out the paper towel and adjusting the height of the table. Straightening to address them properly, Bridget patted the table and said cheerfully, “All set, let’s have a look at Johnny.”

Clara deposited the Doctor onto the table, and then pulled the wet, sick-covered t-shirt over his head, marvelling at how weird her life had become since meeting her mad man in a box. The Doctor sat with his fat little hands in his lap, looking up intently at their suspects, and Clara wanted to nudge or kick him to make him act more like - well - like a  _baby_ (except that kicking a baby would be _wrong_ and bring with it its own set of moral and social complications), because now Bridget and Don were openly staring, clearly unnerved by the sight of a silent, motionless 14 month-old. Just as Clara was about to do  _something_  to diffuse the tension in the room, Don spoke up.

“As they say in moments like this, I believe - ‘The jig is up’. Your infant-wrangling skills are to be commended; it is quite remarkable how you’ve managed to elicit such apt responses from whomever’s poor offspring you have recruited as part of your operations.”

Bridget continued on, barely missing a beat. “Judging by the way that strap,” she gestured to the bag at Clara’s feet, “was cutting into your shoulder, you’re either packing heat or comms equipment. So unless you open that bag and show us you’ve got lead diapers stowed away, I would say it’s time to come clean.”

Before Clara could come up with a suitable response the Doctor stood up on the examination table, wobbling slightly on his short, dimpled legs. He steadied himself and then waved an accusatory fat, little fist at the fake medical professionals, his infant form clearly lacking the dexterity to actually point at anything.

“You’ve got us exactly where you want us, cornered and sequestered away from prying eyes, so you can also drop the act. Who or  _what_  are you? Hard-light hologram disguise or mind control? What is your endgame? Why babies? Surely adults have more in terms of reserve, so why not prey on the instead?”

“Umm, Doctor…”

“And what is the significance of the rash? The body’s immune response kicking into gear? Are you a sentient virus then? Or are you simply branding your victims?”

“Doctor! Look at them; they have no idea what you’re talking about!”

The Doctor’s chubby arms, which had hitherto been gesticulating animatedly as he delivered his dramatic smackdown against the potential criminals froze in mid-air, and his mouth slackened comically as he took in their bewildered faces. Lowering his arms, the Doctor attempted to rearrange his face into an appropriately vacant expression (which made him look inebriated more than anything else, thought Clara), and turned to Clara for further direction, who unfortunately was of no help as she had her eyes tightly shut, willing away the migraine that was beginning to form.

“How is that baby talking?” asked Bridget (or whatever her name was), her voice reduced to a whisper.

But Nurse Don (or whatever  _his_  name was) was smiling.

“Hard-light holograms, sentient viruses, and an Impossible talking baby? Unless I am very much mistaken, you must be the Doctor and his current Companion.” Don straightened, eyes glinting with barely suppressed excitement. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner, Dr. Joan Watson. We’re private detectives who sometimes work with the local authorities. We have been undercover on this case for the past three months, and I do believe that you two may be the missing links to our investigation.”

 

-  _TO BE CONTINUED -_


End file.
